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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26290747">Dream Catcher</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/WickedIntentions/pseuds/Mal_ice'>Mal_ice (WickedIntentions)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Overwatch (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Calculating!Mercy, Dark, F/M, Female Dominance, Imprisonment, Manipulation, No Identity Reveal/Real Names, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Touching, One-Shot, Painful Sex, Post-Recall, Power Imbalance, Sex as Degradation, Sexually Suppressed!Reaper, Size/Strength Kink, Worshiping the Male Physique</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 08:07:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,193</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26290747</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/WickedIntentions/pseuds/Mal_ice</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The terrorist Reaper hunts down recalled Overwatch agents. Determined to put a stop to his rampage, Mercy does her part by luring him into a trap. Many call him a monster, but she knows he’s just a man—and she’ll prove it at any cost.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Reaper | Gabriel Reyes/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>45</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Dream Catcher</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      
<p></p><div class="notespacing">
  <p>This is a one-shot about</p>
</div>a hypothetical scenario between Mercy and Reaper that doesn’t contain much plot. Mercy is thirty-seven years old, and Reaper is fifty-eight years old. Reaper knows she’s Angela Ziegler, of course, but she doesn’t know he’s Gabriel Reyes. As the tags suggest, real names don’t come into play in this. This is one of the stories I wanted to read but couldn’t find, so I decided to write it and post it for anyone who feels the same way.<div class="notespacing">
  <p>This is forced-to-penetrate rape.</p>
</div>It’s frequently said that women can’t rape men this way, but Mercy rapes Reaper. Sure, he has physiological reactions from stimuli because that’s how erections work, but she forces him into it. I’ll remind everyone that these are fictional characters, and our fantasies rarely coincide with reality. That said, if it’s any consolation, she does treat him with some respect—what the situation can warrant, anyway.<div class="notespacing">
  <p>Reaper is tagged as sexually suppressed because</p>
</div>I’ve written him as offended/disturbed by Mercy’s lust for him. He channels his primal need for release into his kills, not intimacy with other people. He won’t willingly make himself vulnerable because he’s incapable of trust.<div class="notespacing">
  <p>Before anyone asks about a sequel,</p>
</div>Reaper is an extremely violent and sadistic psychopath. I’ve read several stories (which I enjoyed) where he’s softer, depicted as capable of redemption and eventual feelings for Mercy, but, in this, I’ve stuck to the original characterization, wherein he hunts his former comrades and devours corpses. If there were a sequel about his revenge, Mercy would die, and I don’t want to write that.<div class="notespacing">
  <p>This story has a work skin,</p>
</div>which means it contains special formatting through CSS/HTML, particularly in the drop cap, line height, margins, and preface. If it bothers you, there’s a “Hide Creator’s Style” button at the top of the page to toggle it off, or you can permanently disable work skins in your “Preferences” page if you’re a registered user.
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><span class="dropcap">“I</span>’ll rip you to pieces when I get out of this. Count your life down to the goddamn seconds and get ready to beg me for each one.”</p>

<p></p><div class="indent">
  <p>The lingering electrical currents from Reaper’s last attempted escape further distort his filtered voice into something downright demonic. His arms, already stretched to their limit over his head, flex as he yanks at his bindings. As strong as he looks, the metal encasing his forearms and calves is too formidable for him.</p>
  <p>Mercy delicately picks a path through the discarded machinery. They’re alone together in this storage room deep beneath Gibraltar, and nobody else knows about his intrusion yet. She studies the cracks in his bone-white owl mask and the eyeholes that seem to be trained on her. He emits a miasma-like aura, and she imagines he’s literally steaming with fury and hatred like his threats suggest. Her eyes drop, appraising his broad shoulders and chest and farther down to his muscular thighs. He’s a huge man, dwarfing her as she stands in front of him. As tall as she is, her head barely reaches the bottom point of his mask.</p>
  <p>He has murdered countless people. His name invokes the fear of death and afterlife, and he’s nigh untouchable, a scientific marvel. And she set the bait and caught him—or, rather, he trapped himself by passing through, like a nightmare in a dream catcher.</p>
  <p><em> Gott im Himmel, </em> she’s thankful it worked so well, or she’d be dead right now, shriveled into a husk.</p>
  <p>Mercy mutters some notes into her audio recorder in German before folding her hands behind her back. Reaper is painted in shadow from the flickering overhead lights. His prison is not unlike an upright Medieval rack, circular in design and threaded with rubber cords secured inside the open frame, which showcases intricate circuitry in dark blue. The metal is silver—expensive, somewhat flashy, and not viable long-term—chosen for its superior conductivity, she presumes. ESD flooring pads the room except for the chrome tiles beneath Reaper, isolating him. Winston did a fantastic job with the device despite how rushed it was. She’s excited to tell him the results, though she anticipates the scolding she’ll get for attempting this alone.</p>
  <p>“My coworker mentioned your past break-in,” Mercy says. “He told me all about you, what he observed—how you can, let’s say, rearrange your own molecules at will. He built this specifically for you.”</p>
  <p>
    <em> “Fucking monkey.” </em>
  </p>
  <p>“He’s a scientist,” she corrects with reproach, “an inventor with a brilliant mind.”</p>
  <p>He responds with what can only be a derisive snort, turning his head to the side and disappearing into his swooping cowl.</p>
  <p>Mercy takes more notes into her recorder as she circles him: everything from the nonstandard bolt heads set with Ws to the inhumane tension in Reaper’s restraints to the superfluous use of silver. This gilded cage seems like an outlet for revenge. It’s cruel, mocking, and personal. When she pauses her dictation, her eyes flit across the sickly gray pallor of his biceps down to where his coat flares about his trim waist.</p>
  <p>Admittedly, not all of her intentions are so clinical. This is a unique research opportunity as much as it is an experiment. She’s curious. It’s her strongest trait, so she can’t ignore it when it strikes. Tucking her recorder under one arm, she reaches for the belt slung around his hips and lifts the dangling buckle. It must weigh two kilograms.</p>
  <p>“What are you doing?” Reaper demands, snapping his head forward.</p>
  <p>“I’ve been told my bedside manner is impeccable.” She offers a wry upturn of her lips. “Are you comfortable?”</p>
  <p>With a guttural roar, he bursts into shadow, alarming Mercy, who snatches her hands back. The dark-blue circuitry in the frame lights up and whirs, tethering his gauntlets and boots and shocking him into corporeality in a sphere of blue-white that blinds her into shielding her eyes. He utters a low, pained noise, sagging. After several seconds, he lifts his head, rolls his shoulders, and resumes his stubbornly proud posture as if he didn’t just take an excruciating two-hundred milliamperes for the third time in seven minutes. “What do you think, <em> Doc?” </em></p>
  <p>“I advised you to stop trying that.” She pauses while her heart hammers in her chest. Caging him is both thrilling and terrifying, and she glances at his bindings to make sure they’re undamaged. For a moment, she expects him to rip right through the metal and grab her, even though she knows it’s humanly impossible. “You should know you’re caught in a microscopic mesh of transistors and particle conductors. Changes in your body density activate them and complete the circuit when you go into your… mm, wraith form. It’s best if you stay intact.”</p>
  <p>“Instead of figuring out a way to kill me, you strap me in for torture. ‘Merciful’ of you.”</p>
  <p>She bristles. “I didn’t force you to do that, and you know it.”</p>
  <p>“So, you’re gonna objectify me.”</p>
  <p>“That’s not my intention. I know you’re a man somewhere under there. I respect your capabilities, which is why so many precautions are in place. There isn’t a single thing in this world that truly binds you, no allegiance, no law that keeps you in check—even our most fundamental ones. No, I think you’re fascinating… but very, very dangerous. It’s for my safety and the safety of this facility.”</p>
  <p>“Call it what you want. I’m your specimen. Your lab rat—yours and that monkey’s.”</p>
  <p>Mercy frowns in reprimand, to which Reaper lifts his chin in clear defiance and says, “He’s a fucking monkey. Get over it.”</p>
  <p>She deposits her recorder in her lab-coat pocket and reaches for his belt again. He has another one around his waist and a third for holding extra shotshells. She tugs it free and runs it through her hands. The crisp leather squeaks in her palms.</p>
  <p>“Time for my physical?” he scoffs. “You may not like the results.”</p>
  <p>She peers at him under her lashes and drops the belt at her side. Then she plucks a shell out of its holster on his chest and examines it. “You were holding your weapons when you arrived. Where are they?”</p>
  <p>“Not here.”</p>
  <p>“Yes, I can see that. Please don’t insult my intelligence.” Mercy flicks the shell into the pile beside her and takes another one, giving it a deliberate once-over like it holds the answer. Its design seems familiar somehow, but she can’t place it. It goes into the pile, followed by the last one. “I must assume you store them in some pocket dimension, for lack of a better phrase. Am I warm?”</p>
  <p>“Assume away.”</p>
  <p>“I’m making conversation because I’m curious.”</p>
  <p>“Right. And the trap and electrocution are icebreakers.”</p>
  <p>Her lips press into a thin line. Without pulling her eyes from his mask, she searches for his second belt, brushing his thighs with her knuckles on her way up. His pants feel more lightweight than the embossed carbon fiber covering his torso—a cotton-nylon blend, if she had to guess, like tactical gear. She finds the buckle just above his hip bone and undoes it, sliding it out from under his coat and tossing it in the growing pile.</p>
  <p>“What happened to you?” she asks, receiving a measure of silence. “Who altered your physiology? Was it against your will?”</p>
  <p>“Go on, waste your breath. Keep asking questions like you expect me to answer them. I don’t give a shit. Might as well shock me a couple more times to see if I’ll break.”</p>
  <p>“I won’t do that.”</p>
  <p>“Yeah, because you’re an altruist. I give you death threats, and you ask if I’m comfortable.” He laughs. It’s a low, spiteful sound that makes her shiver. “Let me save you some trouble. I don’t have anything else on me but what you can already see. Go find your monkey.”</p>
  <p>Mercy should walk away and alert Winston, Lena, and the others. Surveillance needs to be installed, guards assigned. Reaper will have weapons trained on him every second of every day, allowing her to complete her research in monitored peace. They may even gag him.</p>
  <p>But this sensation of excited dread is the most alive she has felt since the days when she was a fresh recruit—dodging the observant eyes of Reyes and Morrison because they intimidated her sexually. Reaper is a killer who has his sights set on her, but he’s under her control. He’s an absolute sculpture, all hard lines and restrained power, and taking off his belts has gotten her hotter than she can ever remember being. Without the danger, it’ll feel routine.</p>
  <p>It’s a terrible idea, but she’s addicted to the taste of exhilaration. She needs to see more while they have this private space together.</p>
  <p>“I cannot trust your word,” she says, keeping her tone even to conceal her inner turbulence, “not when you’ve been so aggressive. I must be certain before I leave you by yourself.”</p>
  <p>Reaper grunts, shifting in place. He rolls his neck, cracking it. Maybe it’s stiff, or maybe it’s an intimidation factor. Every action he takes seems to showcase his physical strength or pain tolerance.</p>
  <p>Mercy turns her attention to the final utility belt secured around his pelvis. Her fingers skate across the five shotshells, leaving prints on the sleek brass heads. Beside them is the clasp, which detaches with some fumbling. The belt slackens and falls into her hands. It’s heavier than it looks, about four kilograms, she decides, testing its heft before discarding it with the others.</p>
  <p>There’s a tremor in her wrists as she steps closer, hovering on the edge of the ESD padding. She leans in, snaking her arms around his torso and under his coat. The carbon fiber has an almost cloth-like texture with minimal give, cool to the touch. She traces the dips and grooves over his lumbar vertebrae, following the subtle curve up to his scapulae. She’s all but embracing him now, her chin resting on his chest and eyes on his mask, which is downturned at her.</p>
  <p>The sneer is audible in his voice when he asks, “Find those bombs, knives, EMPs, or whatever else you’re looking for?”</p>
  <p>“Not yet,” she says, backtracking down his spine and imagining each rib encircling his lungs and heart. He smells like gunpowder and wood smoke, a heady combination that makes her lightheaded. Leaning back, she rounds his waist, pressing her palms to his abdomen. The armor melds to his form perfectly, up to his pectorals and clavicles, over his shoulders, and down his sides. She’s somewhat breathless now. He really is in wonderful shape.</p>
  <p>She lingers on the points of his hip bones, slowly kneeling as she curls her hands around his right thigh, massaging, squeezing, and following it down to where his boot is locked in place. She gauges his reaction before giving the same attention to his left thigh. Placing a hand on the back of each leg, she rises to her feet, cupping his rear, which clenches like steel under her touch. She hears Reaper grind his teeth.</p>
  <p>Everything about him is hard—</p>
  <p>Mercy flicks her gaze downward, unable to stop herself.</p>
  <p>“Don’t fucking flatter yourself,” he snarls, jerking his hips away from her. Judging by the violence of his reaction, he clung to indifference for as long as he could before it eluded him. “You’re feeling me up like I’m smuggling an armory.”</p>
  <p>“Well, apparently, you’re not.”</p>
  <p>“Right. I told you that. Now, <em> fuck off.” </em></p>
  <p>“There’s no need to be rude. As I said before, I’m concerned about your comfort. Do I make you nervous?”</p>
  <p>“Then make me comfortable by fucking off.”</p>
  <p>“Do I,” Mercy repeats with crisp enunciation, ignoring his sarcasm and sinking to her knees, “make you nervous?”</p>
  <p>Reaper laughs—short and stuttered as if she surprised him. “Overwatch lacking good dicks for you to suck? Too bad. Maybe expand your search outside animals and tin cans.”</p>
  <p>He’s deflecting and trying to humiliate her while she’s eye level with his tented pelvis. It’s an interesting defense mechanism, but it doesn’t faze her. Being around foul-mouthed soldiers, she has heard far worse. “Careful. I might think you have something to hide.”</p>
  <p>“You’re recording this.”</p>
  <p>“What?” Her eyebrows lift at the odd statement. “No. Why are you so quick to accuse me of the worst?”</p>
  <p>“Because maybe Overwatch’s darling angel isn’t so pristine.”</p>
  <p>Mercy lowers her brow into neutrality and studies the outline of his erection, flattened to the left in an impressive line.</p>
  <p>Lifting her hands, she unbuttons his pants. She leans in, closes her eyes, and uses her tongue to lift the zipper, clamping it between her teeth. She clutches his thighs as she pulls it down its track. Her fingers dig into him. Pulling back and opening her eyes, she admires the dark-gray boxer briefs clinging to his physique, leaving little to the imagination. He’s circumcised, much to her surprise.</p>
  <p>“Maybe not,” she says coolly, tugging his pants down and bending forward to mouth at his clothed glans, where a blossoming wet spot further attests to his unwitting arousal. Her lips close around the mushroom-like head, and she suckles him, soaking the cloth with her saliva.</p>
  <p>Reaper’s muscles jump under her hands, and he growls something incomprehensible. He’s trying to arch away, but she follows, sliding her mouth down his shaft. It flexes sporadically under her hot breath. At the root, Mercy pulls back with her pulse thrumming in her ears.</p>
  <p>Easing down his damp boxers, she exposes his cock, which springs out in front of her face and bumps her nose. While washed-out in the same gray as his arms, it’s thick and long—oozing a trail of pre-cum from the flushed tip. She thinks it’s beautiful.</p>
  <p><em> Gott. </em> The urge to taste him resonates like a pang, clenching her abdomen into a tight, visceral knot. She peppers the tip with kisses and smears the fluid like lip gloss. Puckering her lips, she sips at the tiny slit there, capturing him with the undulating of her mouth. She shifts on the floor and squeezes her thighs together, rocking them a bit for pressure, hyperaware of how swollen and achingly empty she feels.</p>
  <p>He’s leaking so much that his pre-cum drowns her tongue in a subtly bitter flavor. She decides she likes it because it came from him. Mercy pulls off with a wet pop and tilts her head back to look up at his mask, where a faint crimson glow illuminates his eyeholes. She lowers her eyelids to half-mast and licks her lips clean with two swipes. The sensuality of her own tone sounds foreign to her ears when she murmurs, “Have you lost your voice? Not too long ago, you were telling me how much you wanted to murder me. Now, you’re speechless. I’ll accept it as a compliment.”</p>
  <p>His response is a rumble deep in his throat, predatory and promising pain, but he doesn’t seem to have a snarky comment handy.</p>
  <p>Pulling fabric aside, she releases his balls and plays with them in one hand while she sinks down his cock, taking as much as she can until her gag reflex limits her. Reaper half-stifles a husky groan that spikes in her groin. Her lips pull taut around him as she angles her head and flattens her tongue under his twitching shaft. She maintains a blissful back-and-forth rhythm as she sucks him in long, gentle pulls. She massages his tightening sac and strokes his length with the other hand. For some time, her dutiful slurping is punctuated by his periodic intakes of breath. It seems she has taken the vitriol out of him.</p>
  <p>Reaper is right—she’s out of practice, though it could be attributed to his size. It’s not long before her jaw aches, but she ignores the pain enough to give him a couple more languid sucks. He shudders when she releases him.</p>
  <p>Mercy is sweating, and the warm humming of the machinery only makes it worse. Feeling restless, she adjusts her collar and smooths a hand down her thigh, raking her nails into her lab coat. As much as she enjoys pleasuring Reaper, she craves stimulation to where it’s distracting.</p>
  <p>Pushing herself to her feet and balancing on shaky knees, she sheds her lab coat somewhere behind her, leaving her in a blouse and modest skirt. Her panties soon follow, kicked aside. She steps into his isolated square, turns her back on him, and molds against his front. After hiking up her skirt to her waist, she finds his cock and guides it between her thighs, which she squeezes around him. She takes a moment to appreciate the velvety hardness flush against her cunt. She’s syrupy with her own arousal, and backward ruts quickly become a sensual glide, as if she applied a coating of lubricant between them. The slick noises are obscene—she closes her eyes and focuses on them as she reaches between her legs to stroke him in a loose fist.</p>
  <p>Reaper is panting harshly now, each breath filtering out like a handful of gravel. There’s an undeniable restlessness in how he rolls the length of his body, as if he’s trying to escape his own skin. He’s nearing his limit but too proud to admit it. Mercy wonders how long it has been since he last came. He’s sensitive and amenable to her ministrations, much more than she expected from someone whom most call an apathetic killer. Has his need to ejaculate eclipsed his resolve to remain stoic?</p>
  <p>She shifts forward on her tip-toes and uses two fingers to gently push him along her slit, from her clitoris to her sopping entrance, where he sinks in with every nudge she gives. Somehow, he feels thicker than he looks, straining her walls in a slight burn that makes her shiver with delight. He’ll fill her more than anyone ever has.</p>
  <p>With her mouth falling open, Mercy grabs his coat and rests her head against his chest. She’s pressing back in millimeters, slowly stretching herself on his tip and anchoring them together. Reaper releases an interesting sound—a half-growl, half-exhalation that strikes her as violently restrained. He jerks, and the head of his cock sheathes inside her. Mercy gasps out a moan and reaches between her legs. She drags a fingertip along the underside of his shaft, making him twitch, and then finds her clitoris, which she rubs circles into. Her other hand cups one of her clothed breasts and tweaks her stiff nipple hard enough to hurt.</p>
  <p>“Gott, so good,” she murmurs, forcing her hips back to cram more of him inside. There’s a raw ache in her walls as they work to accommodate the intrusion. She’s so full, and she hasn’t even taken all of him yet.</p>
  <p>All at once, the tension gives, and she loosens with a gush of fluid. Reaper slides in with minimal resistance to the tune of her cry. It’s hot, wet, and snug with no wasted space.</p>
  <p>“More, more,” she whimpers deliriously, rocking against him. She wants him to control the pace and use some of his brutish strength on her. “Bitte, Reaper.”</p>
  <p>He grunts somewhere above her head. “You want me to fuck you?”</p>
  <p>Mercy’s breath hitches in encouragement. She’s abusing her clitoris, rubbing it with fast strokes and building the pressure of her impending orgasm. She clenches and relaxes her lower muscles in erratic pulses, loving the sensation of being impaled on such a perfect cock.</p>
  <p>“Fine,” Reaper hisses. “I’ll make you bleed with how deep I’ll go. You’re gonna regret thinking you could handle me.”</p>
  <p>When he jostles her forward with a snap of his hips, sliding out, she instinctively reaches for him, but her hand stills when he thrusts back in with a lewd squelch, and out, and in—soon coming flush with her backside, where sweat rolls down from under her bunched-up skirt. In one harsh motion, he smashes her cervix, making her recoil in sudden white-hot pain that lances through the hazy pleasure and all but kills her near-orgasm.</p>
  <p>She cries out through gritted teeth, her face twisting.</p>
  <p>“That hurt?” Reaper taunts in a smoky-smooth tone. He pulls out about halfway before slamming in, giving her another spike of agony that has her releasing his coat and stumbling a half-step forward to limit his range.</p>
  <p>“Mercy,” he cajoles, shallowly rutting between her lips in a backhanded mimicry of affection, “come back here. You wanted this.”</p>
  <p>She glances over her shoulder at him and frowns. “If you won’t curb your blood thirst—”</p>
  <p>“—What, you’re gonna fuck yourself on me?” He chuckles darkly. “Yeah, thought so.”</p>
  <p>Wincing, Mercy spreads her fingers around where he’s buried inside her and eases forward until he falls out. She cups the emptied space and takes a breath. Something trickles out of her, and she swipes it off to examine it—bright-red blood smeared across her palm, as he promised. She’s too raw for penetration now and will have to heal. It’s disappointing, but she’s not deterred.</p>
  <p>His cock flexes against his abdomen. It shines with blood and their mingled juices under the light. Reaper stretches within his prison, popping various joints with a sigh. “We done here?”</p>
  <p>“Almost,” she says, approaching him once again and leaning against his front. Her fingers find his shaft and stroke him in a measured pace.</p>
  <p>His groan rings with obvious frustration. “How do I get rid of you, you goddamn pest?”</p>
  <p>Mercy raises herself up on her tip-toes to bring her near his mask. She lifts her eyes to where his own are hidden as she gently pulls on his cock with flicks of her wrist and caresses his balls with the other hand. “You are just a man and not the monster everyone says you are. You crave release; you’re not above it. I want proof. I want you to come.”</p>
  <p>Reaper exhales through his nose and deflates the tiniest bit. It’s so subtle that she almost missed it, but she was watching for it. Although minuscule, this experience has worn him down, knocked him down a peg. He can be caught. He can be controlled—pleasured.</p>
  <p>He’s just a man.</p>
  <p>Mercy wants him to know it, and that’s why she uses the tense silence to work him to orgasm. She lubes him with his gratuitous pre-cum and speeds up her pumping. His balls are tightening, drawing nearer to his body, and she knows he’s very close. His breath comes out ragged, betraying his interest in getting there. He wants this as much as she does.</p>
  <p>With a peck to the jawline of his mask, she swoops down, takes him into her mouth, and sucks him off with abandon.</p>
  <p>Reaper jerks underneath her with a snarl, and his hips twitch almost desperately. He comes across her tongue with four hot, long squirts, and she swallows what amounts to a mouthful of his salty cum. She cleans him with three licks and a suckle and pulls away to watch, with vindictive satisfaction, as his erection wilts.</p>
  <p>For several seconds, he simply breathes, perhaps composing himself, and she goes about tucking him into his boxers and pants and tidying up his appearance the way he started, minus the belts and shotshells. She finds her panties and steps into them, pulling them up around her hips. The dull throbbing in her womb feels inconsequential in this minor victory.</p>
  <p>When she’s done, she regards him with crinkled eyes and a new touch of coldness. “Are you comfortable?”</p>
  <p>Mercy senses it before it happens—stepping back on the ESD padding, she flinches as he explodes into a furious mist, activating the transistors and filling the room with retina-piercing light and electrical chirping. Seconds pass, and it doesn’t stop. It’s not stopping. <em> It’s not stopping. </em> She panics at the possibility of a power surge. This sector is isolated from the mainframe and can’t indefinitely maintain a voltage like this.</p>
  <p><em> Oversight, oversight, oversight, </em> go the warning bells in her head. It’s a terrible oversight in the design. Winston didn’t take into account Reaper’s high tolerance for pain. If he blows out the generator, he’ll escape and kill her—kill all of them. Before Mercy can blindly throw herself toward the exit, a roar heralds the distinctive <em> pop, pop, pop-pop-pop </em> of light bulbs burning out one after another. As quickly as it came, the white-blue blinks out of existence, as does the chirping. She lowers her hand from her eyes with hesitation. Blobs of color swim in front of her traumatized pupils, and she waits for them to dissipate enough to see Reaper hanging limp. This time, he’s visibly shaking as he recovers, lifting his chin from his chest with what looks like great difficulty.</p>
  <p>The only illumination in the room is the emergency light at her back. Mercy bends down to find her recorder in her discarded lab coat and notes the oversight in whispered German.</p>
  <p>“I’ll get out of this thing,” Reaper promises in a low purr, bathed in eerie crimson darkness. “You’re at the top of my list now, Doc. See you soon.”</p>
  <p>Straightening up, Mercy masks her fear behind indifference. “We shall see.”</p>
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